


For The Love Of Molly Weasley.

by GoWithTheFlo20



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Always A Girl Harry Potter - Freeform, Awesome Molly Weasley, F/M, Family Feels, Female Harry Potter, Fluff and Smut, Good Weasley Family (Harry Potter), Idiots in Love, Light-Hearted, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Misguided Albus Dumbledore, More tags to be added, Order of the Phoenix (Harry Potter), Potter Luck, Prewett Family Explored, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Pureblood Society (Harry Potter), Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Everything, Slow Romance, Time Travel, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:07:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22441552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoWithTheFlo20/pseuds/GoWithTheFlo20
Summary: When the original Order of the Phoenix are, one by one, saved from certain death by what could only be a Potter with that monstrosity for hair, the future of the wizarding world is irrevocably changed. When Hemlock Potter saw Molly Weasley, alone, crying on the anniversary of Fred's death, she had only wanted to see her smile again. If that meant ripping apart time and space to do so, then that was exactly what she'd do. A light-hearted tale of chosen families, a mother's love, and the extraordinary luck of a wayward Potter.Told in a series of drabbles. *DAILY UPDATES*
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald, Alice Longbottom/Frank Longbottom, Arthur Weasley/Molly Weasley, Harry Potter/Fabian Prewett/Gideon Prewett, James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Minerva McGonagall/Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 57
Kudos: 680





	1. The Slippery Slope To Stupidity Part I

_Hemlock Potter's P.O.V_

The first thing Hemlock Potter ever felt for Molly Weasley was gratitude. Alone, lost, only eleven years old, and entirely too new to the wizarding world to be left stranded in the bustling crowds of King's Cross Station without a guiding hand, she was more than a little overwhelmed and frantic.

The tiny child, with clothes too big, knobbly knees, and a future she could never have dreamed of, didn't know where to go. Who did she ask for help from when, exactly, she didn't know _what_ she needed help with? What should she do when, really, magic was so boundless? How much trouble would she be in if she missed the Hogwarts Express, especially for something, to Hemlock, as silly as getting lost?

And if she _did_ miss the train, then did that mean she wasn't really a witch? What if it was all a great big mistake and-

Molly Weasley came then, in a flurry of patchwork skirts and a clutch of red-haired hazards scurrying about her legs.

Short and plump, still wearing her flour-mottled kitchen apron, the woman had a kind face. The kindest Hemlock Potter, mistreated and misused Hemlock Potter, had ever seen before.

Utterly different to Petunia Dursley's sour, hawk-like scowl. A _mother's_ face, Hemlock would remember thinking. Molly Weasley had a mother's face, and that was precisely what Hemlock needed.

Molly smiled at her, bright, warm. _So warm_. She had gentle hands; Hemlock remembered. Gentle and tender, so unlike Vernon's meaty snatches and Petunia's prickly pinches.

She showed Hemlock how to get through the barrier to Platform Nine and Three Quarters which, left alone, Hemlock would have never figured out.

How do you think of running headfirst into a brick wall?

Nevertheless, the gratitude came later. When, after discovering her name through a spluttering Ron, Fred and George came dashing off the train to tell their mother "The black-haired kid" was actually Hemlock Potter. _The_ Hemlock Potter.

Molly Weasley hadn't _cared._

She had been just a child to Molly. A lost, confused child in a world too big and too strange.

A child that had needed help.

Even when Ginny pleaded to be allowed on the train to see her, with clasped hands and big blue eyes that normally led to her having her way, just to see a glimpse of The-Girl-Who-Lived, Molly shook her head and told the young girl Hemlock wouldn't want to be gawked at like an animal in the zoo.

Hemlock, at age eighteen, when she would ponder on her life and marvel how the hell she had ended up sandwiched between two Prewetts, dining on another Sunday Lunch at the Burrow, wedged between people who, had she not done what she had, should rightfully be dead and buried, and she spotted Molly there, smiling over a roast chicken, stomach rounded with Ron, thought, perhaps, it was that day, so many years ago, she had begun to love her sister-in-law.

So much so she had chosen to fuck the timeline up.

Hemlock Potter _wasn't_ sorry.

She got what she wanted.

She saw Molly smile openly once more.


	2. The First Of Five Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is told in two timelines. The first, which chapter one was a part of, describes Hemlock's life growing up, why she has started doing what she has, her growing motherly relationship with Molly, and, practically, how we end up at part two. The second timeline, which this chapter is a part of, details a grown-up Hemlock travelling in time in the marauders era. By separating the two, and bouncing between them, we get the build-up and action simultaneously, without missing much or having to wait absolutely ages for anything new to happen, and I thought it was overall a better choice for this type of fic. Hope you like it!

_Marlene McKinnon's P.O.V_

The blow came swift and hard, striking against her temple. The world around her flashed sickeningly, pulsing with the frantic pound of her heart.

Marlene McKinnon crumpled to the carpeted floor in a tangled heap, unable to brace herself against the fall, hands bound behind her back.

Somewhere in the distance, what felt like so very far away, she thought she heard the sobbing cries of her mother, begging for mercy, pleading for her only child's life. Her father, strapped down next to her mother, cursed between yells and howls.

This was it.

This was the day Marlene McKinnon died.

It wasn't a sudden revelation. Marlene thought she knew it would all come boiling down to this the moment her families manor wards were breached that evening.

When you spotted a gaggle of death eaters prowling up the garden path, lurking under the cover of night, you knew it was only going to end one of two ways.

Unfortunately, that day seemed to not have been in the blonde's favour.

_Shame._

There was still so much to do. So much to see. Things, countless, Marlene would never get to experience for herself. In the dawn of her death, twenty-three years seemed entirely too short to call a life.

Most of all, she would never get to call that vagabond, Sirius Black, a bastard again.

She had _so_ enjoyed doing so.

"Tell me where they are, and all the pain will stop. That would be nice, wouldn't it, girly?"

Scrunched, bruised, bleeding, sprawled at the feet of those she had fought so hard against, Marlene shook her head in the positive. The masked death eater who had taken the vanguard in her, and her families, torture and questioning, stooped over her, balancing on his haunches, so close she could feel the flutter of his putrid breath wheezing through the grated mouth of his mask.

The gleam in his hazel eye, so alike the cat who got the cream, glinted at her. As keen as a knifes edge.

"Closer…"

Down he came, so close, and there, right there, his eye glowed with victory.

It did so until she reared back and spat right into his face.

"Fuck you and your tiny prick, Travers! I ain't telling you shit."

The man reared back, lurching, snorting and cussing as he slashed a stiff hand across his mask, smearing her blood across his cloaked skeletal face.

If Marlene was going to die, she would die how she had lived.

Protecting those she loved.

These scum wouldn't get James or Lily's location from her.

_Never._

She would die as she lived, she promised.

Fighting bitterly for a better future.

It may not be a future she would see, not even a future her children could live in, but, crucially, it was a _future._

If Voldemort won this war, he would burn them all down to the ground in fire, fury, and fanaticism.

Travers, his partners, two stationed by her mother and father, nodded to one another. He raised his wand, tip pointing between her brows and-

Here it was.

_Game over._

She knew what was coming.

The same that had come for those poor muggleborn children.

They would murder her. Possibly kill her parents if they were feeling merciful. If not, which was likely, they would stun them. Then, heaped in the living room, they would burn the house down.

The Order would be too late to save them.

That was how she ended.

Dead by her parents who would be burned alive next to her corpse.

Travers's wand tip blazed green, eager, ready, seconds from firing, and-

A knock. One, two, three. High. Sharp. Knuckles drumming against Glass.

Marlene's gaze darted to the window behind the death eater.

For a heartbeat she thought-

Well, she thought she saw James Potter, dimples, outrageous hair and all, standing at her living room window, grinning, waving a glib hello to her.

That was, of course, _before_ all hell broke loose.

The first sound was the window exploding. Travers bellowed next, and she thought his little friend, the one by her mother, tried to run. Then there was only colours. Brilliant. Bright. Dazzling.

_Fast_.

Yellow, and blue, and red, and orange, and pink and purple and-

Never green. Marlene never, not once, through the hailstorm of spell-fire, saw a flash of fetid green.

_Thud._

_Thud._

_Thud._

By the time the colours fizzled and popped and died, Travers, along with his fellow brethren, were piled on the floor, bound, stunned, one was even-

Yes, Marlene _did_ see a shiny ribbon. One had a merry little red bow stuck on top of his head like a Christmas present. The spell binding her hands shattered as Travers fell into oblivion.

Marlene tried to heave herself up, to do something, anything, but her arms felt feeble, aspic, and, Merlin, every breath _throbbed._

She looked up. Over. Caught a shaky, pulsing glimpse of, _it had to be_ , James Potter unbinding her parents and helping them to a wobbly stand. Marlene reached for him, one of her dearest friends, and rasped.

"James… I didn't… I didn't tell them, James. I swear… James…"

James twisted around, his face was blurry, her vision faulting through the blow to her head, but she saw him ease her parents together, balancing them against the wall before he came dashing to her side, slinking a strong arm around her waist, throwing her trembling limp arm around his shoulders as he pulled her up.

His shoulders felt… Slimmer.

More delicate.

"James-"

"Not quite, love. But you're not far off."

Marlene blinked at the sound of a woman's husky voice, blinked some more, blinked just for good luck, and sluggishly, surely, irreversibly, their face came into focus.

Decidedly _not_ James Potter.

This was a woman.

But oh… _Oh_ … Did she look like James. That hair, curly, huge, wild. Those cheekbones, sharp, angular. That nose, slender, royal. The same dimples. The same wry mouth. Right down to the swaggering cock of a thick, arched brow.

All apart from the eyes.

Those were _all_ Lily Potter.

Marlene would know.

Lily was her best friend.

"Who-… Who are you? How did you-…"

The grin the woman shot her was almost blinding.

"I'm Hemlock Potter, and today is the day _everybody_ lives."

Gently, almost as if she was afraid she might hurt Marlene anymore, this… Hemlock propped Marlene into the arms of her father, who wrapped her in a relieved, loving embrace, tight, before she was dragging back a step or two to give the injured family some room, and much needed breathing space. She tilted her head inquisitively, almost like a curious puppy, gaze drifting far away.

_That_ movement had Sirius Black written all over it.

"Well, it will be a day for _me._ A bit longer for you, I'm afraid. You have to go the long way around."

"I don't understand. What is-"

A watch chimed. Hemlock delved a hand deep into the pocket of her torn jeans, and plucked out a little gold fob watch. She idly pressed the button on the crown as the face popped open. She tutted, but Marlene couldn't tear her stare away from the watch.

The fob watch she had seen before.

The fob watch that never left its owner.

The fob watch he was always dropping and denting.

_Fabian Prewetts fob watch._

"I'm out of time. I need to go if I don't want to be late. Marlene, do me a favour?"

Dazedly, Marlene found herself speaking back to this girl of nevers, impossibilities, and time.

"You did just save my life."

She smiled again, but it was more hushed this time, soft. Solemn and sorrowful.

Marlene detested it.

"Give Dumbledore a message for me."

She leaned close, right to her ear, voice nothing but a wisp of a whisper.

Marlene spluttered.

"Why in the name of Merlin would I _ever_ say that to Professor Dumbledore?"

The strange, strange woman with, Marlene was now sure, hair so big because it was full of secrets, cheekily shrugged and shot her a wink.

"Because he needs to trust me, he needs to see where he's failing, and you lot need my help. And you're going to get it, whether you want it or not. Now, can any of you apparate?"

Her father, her brave, fearless father, nodded clumsily.

"I can."

Hemlock straightened out with a tug to the hem of her leather jacket. She was a small thing, barely reaching Marlene's shoulder, but her presence practically made the room feel like a broom closet. Seeping out her skin, shrinking space and perception, filling and stretching.

Boundless.

"Good. Get to an Order safe house. You shouldn't be tracked. I knocked out the death eaters guarding your house and alerted the Aurors to their whereabouts. They should be along any minute to pick up Travers and his lot. Let Aberforth check your wounds. He's a good healer. One of the best I've ever met, if you manage to pull him away from pouring the fire whisky long enough. I'll see you soon at Godric's Hollow… Oh, and one more thing…"

There was that blinding smile again, full of teeth, dimples and marvellous wonder.

"Send Molly Weasley my love."

Then she was clicking the little button on that little fob watch and-

And she was gone.

Blew away in a cloud of gold smoke.


	3. The Slippery Slope To Stupidity Part II

_Hemlock Potter's P.O.V_

"Hey, 'Lock, you have presents under here."

Naturally, Hemlock Potter, garbed in a nightgown and pair of tatty slippers, ignored Ron Weasley as he squatted underneath the Gryffindor common room tree, snuffling about for Christmas presents.

Not only was it a whole week before the Yule holiday, where most children would be heading home to loving families and warm fireplaces and cups brimming with hot chocolate, _not_ her, _never_ her, but only those of the uttermost holiday spirit would have sent off their gifts to rest prettily beneath pine branches this early. Importantly, she was, well, she _was_ Hemlock Potter.

She didn't get gifts.

Not one.

Ever.

Still, as Ron slunk out from below the tree, pine needles jutting out his ginger hair as if he was crowned by Pan himself, wiggling a small box and a larger one that seemed a tad floppy, something hot and heavy tugged horribly in crux of her chest.

They looked pretty, these presents wrapped in jolly red and gold paper, little bows fastened to corners like coronets.

They weren't hers.

She _didn't_ get presents.

"Come on, take them. They're yours. They have your name on them, at least."

She did take them.

If only to see what _real_ name they were addressed to.

That awful tugging scorched when she saw the little name tags, fashioned in the shape of witches hats.

_To Hemlock Potter,_

_Have a lovely Yule holiday, dear._

_Arthur says to wish you a 'Merry Christmas', whatever that means._

_With Love,_

_The Weasleys_

"That's mum's writing, alright. She always sends presents out early. I thought she would send a few of mine, but I guess, 'cause I'm going home, she's left them at the burrow to-"

Hemlock didn't hear Ron.

She didn't hear much at all.

She just stared at those tiny name tags.

Stared and stared and stared and stared and stared-

"Well, aren't you going to open them?"

Slowly, she crept towards him.

Slowly, she sat down.

Slowly, she took the presents.

Slowly, everything seemed to be slowing, a river rushing upwards.

_Wrong._

Sitting under the candlelight of the Yule tree, as wizards and witches called it, with trembling hands and a strange burning in the very heart of her chest, Hemlock opened, for the first time in her life, a present.

It wasn't much. The first was a home-knitted jumper. A garish mix of red and gold wool, she supposed in homage of her new Gryffindor status, with a giant H on the front.

The small box was full of candy-canes, anew, homespun by the parchment still stuck to their delightfully wonky bottoms.

They meant so much.

Much more than any new toy, dress, or top-of-the-line broom could ever mean.

A jumper, lovingly stitched, was _not_ just a jumper.

It was a wish to keep the receiver warm.

Candy-canes, crooked and curved, and a bit burnt in spots, was _not_ just some candy.

It was the hope of sweetening a child's day, and many more to come.

Something warm trickled down the curve of her cheek.

"Bloody hell mate, are you crying? They aren't that bad, I swear. Me, my brothers and sister have to wear them every Yule. They're a bit itchy, sure, but mum goes mental if-"

Hemlock hastily pushed up her rounded glasses and scrubbed her eyes with the back of her hand.

"I'm not crying. It's the-… It's the pine tree. I'm allergic to pine."

Ron, for once discreet, skipped over the fact they had, for the last three days, sat by this very tree without Hemlock showing any signs of tears, sneezes or hives.

Hemlock would, later, have bigger, 'better' presents. Some came the following week. Broomsticks from jail-broken godfathers. Invisibility cloaks left to her by deceased parents. Any book she could ever wish for gift wrapped meticulously from a man who became furry once a month. Quidditch journals from a bashfully forgetful Ron two days late for her birthday. Elegant quills and scrolls of gilded parchment from Hermione who, Hemlock would always argue, spent far too much.

Older, wiser, Hemlock would get the abundance of gifts she was denied by the Dursleys growing up.

However, nothing would ever replace that gaudy jumper and those crooked candy-canes.

Not in Hemlock's eyes.

Nothing could replace that spark of pure joy that came with the realisation that, yes, _really_ , Hemlock had a gift, all her own, underneath the Yule tree.

For it wasn't merely wool and sugar. Not to Hemlock. It was the sudden, single, irreparable thought that came along with it.

Someone had thought of her.

Someone had gone out of their way to give her a gift.

She never told anyone how, later that night, in the safety of her curtained off bed in the girls dormitory, she had held that jumper and cried.

Cried till her eyes were puffy and sore, and her glasses fogged and smeared.

The next day, everybody really _did_ think she had a pine allergy.

For the first time, It had felt like she _had_ a family.

A family who cared.

In many more years, Hemlock Potter would be the one to bend the universe, go where no witch or wizard had ever gone before, to make sure that family survived.

Every single Merlin damned one of them.

She did it wearing a Weasley knitted jumper, and a candy-cane in her pocket just for luck.


	4. The First Of Five Part II

_Alice Longbottom's P.O.V_

It was not every Tuesday night a stranger came leaping out your bedroom closet. It was even less likely, on that cloudy, dull, Tuesday night, the stranger would startle a husband and wife, their son, mercifully, staying with his grandmother for the evening, and laugh so cheerfully upon noticing their outraged faces.

They certainly didn't rush across the room to snatch the unsuspecting wife up by her shoulders, giving a little jostle like a jovial greeting from an old friend.

They definitely did not pat the husband, who was currently raising his wand, on the back like a comrade in arms.

And they most absolutely did not seize the husband and wife's limp, stunned hands and try to cart them to the bedroom door in a mad dash of bouncing curl and frantic words.

Fortunately for Alice and Frank Longbottom, and perhaps the Wizarding world, _this_ stranger did.

"Alice, and Frank Longbottom? Fantastic! I'm right on time. Come, come! We have to go!"

Alice Longbottom, already in her nightclothes, sputtered as she viciously yanked her arm free, summoning her own wand to jab accusingly at the face of the stranger.

"Go where? Let go of me! How did you get past our wards? What are you doing in our house-"

Alice thought she saw the woman, who, through the faint light of the bedroom, they had been getting ready for bed after all, flicker with a glimmer of a green eye. Then she was batting Alice's wand away as if it was nothing but an errant fly buzzing in her face.

Who in the name of Merlin _was_ this?

"No time! We have to leave. _Now_."

Anew, she snatched up their hands and tried, tried so very hard, to lead them out the bedroom. Frank, Alice's brash daring husband, hauled himself free, wand aimed and ready, and grabbed his wife from the strangers hold.

The woman ran forward a step or two before she noticed her captives were gone.

Alice could only see the blackened silhouette spin to face them.

"I am _not_ leaving this house, this heavily warded house, with a stranger. How do I know you're not one of _them_ , hey? How do I know your friends aren't waiting for us outside? Show me your forearm! Lumos."

The bedroom lit up under Frank's spell, and Alice, generally sweet and calm Alice Longbottom, was left gaping into the eyes of Lily Potter.

Lily Potter's eyes lost in the face of James Potter.

_Not quite._

The eyes were a tint too harsh to be Lily's. Keen and cutting and confident in a way a warrior was. Darkly. Sleek, like a prowling cat. The face was tempered slightly too, softened by gentle sweeps and soothing arches, to be utterly James. He also didn't have a bold, blazing scar slicing down his forehead, peeping out between the curls of the woman's fringe. Nor did he have the splattering of taupe freckles sprinkled across the bridge of his nose.

This stranger with Alice's friend's faces _did._

This stranger who proceeded to huff at her husband, as if she was dealing with a temper tantrum from an incensed toddler, as she shimmied out her leather jacket, ditched it on the floor without a backward glance, and rolled up both sleeves of her bright red jumper, golden H gleaming proudly on her chest.

She held her arms out, aloft, as if they were going to shackle her, bare, untouched skin open for the world to see.

"See, happy now? Please, we _have_ to leave. They'll be here any second and-"

Frank cut her off abruptly.

"I'm still not going anywhere with you. How do I know you're not some kind of unmarked spy-"

Her arms fell lifelessly to her side, all signs of smiles, snickers and sass fleeing from her face in a trundling wave.

Something hot lodged into the bottom of Alice's throat, pressing her to be voiceless.

The stranger didn't look at them like they were indignant toddlers anymore.

No.

She looked at them as if they were ghosts.

"If you don't leave with me right this second, Barty Crouch Jr, Bellatrix, Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange will break down your door and enter your home in exactly four minutes. You'll fight. You'll _lose._ They'll torture you both under the Cruciatus curse for hours. By daybreak, you won't even remember your names. Your son, Neville, will visit you every Sunday in the secure wards of Saint Mungo's, where you'll spend the rest of your lives as dribbling, mental wrecks. You won't recognize him. You _never_ do. Your own son, nothing but a stranger. You'll look at him as you are looking at me right now. And he will always leave holding back tears that, years ago, he thought had dried up. That's your life… _If_ you stay."

Frank's wand, little by little, inch by inch, dropped. Alice had never heard her husband sound so lost before.

So lost and little and… And _scared._

"How do you know-"

Alice, doggedly, tore away from her husband. Treading closer. Creeping.

"It's you, isn't it? The girl who saved Marlene and the Prewett twins… It's you!"

And it was.

It had to be.

Wild hair.

Dimpled grin.

Right down to that horrid sweater, ragged leather Jacket, and candy-cane peeking out breast pocket Marlene had described to Dumbledore when she was explaining how her family had survived, as many had _not,_ a full-frontal raid by death eaters.

No one had believed her.

She had just been tortured.

She had been hit on the head.

Quite a bad blow, if what Aberforth Dumbledore, who, oddly, Marlene had demanded see to her, had told them.

Desperate minds in times of need imagine what they must.

That's what Albus had told them.

Until Marlene had whispered something in his ear and, ashen, he had left the safe house in a flurry of periwinkle robe.

And then the Prewett twins had been attacked in Knockturn Alley. They had been cornered by five death eaters. Antonin Dolohov, perhaps one of the strongest, and most terrible, amongst he-who-must-not-be-named ranks, had been leading the charge.

No one had seen them since.

However, Fabian had sent a letter to his sweet sister, Molly, a day later.

All it said was they were alive, travelling with 'the impossible girl'.

Moody had thought the two bewitched, cursed or hexed, left to wander the countryside or some other place far away, and, crucially, out of the imminent fight the death eaters were obviously stoking to life.

Molly was sure they were safe and sound, wherever they be, with this 'impossible girl'.

But if they were, where were they now? Were they downstairs and waitin-

"The-Girl-Who-Saved… I like that. I like it more than-"

The woman was grinning again, brilliant, warm, before she caught herself, caught her drifting thoughts in stiff hands and violently shook her head, getting a hold of herself.

Bending down to grab her jacket back up, she lumbered the leather on and held out a hand for Alice to take, fingers splayed wide.

"Please, come with me. I only want to help you. I promise."

Alice blinked owlishly, baffled by the whole swift, peculiar twist and turn to her ordinary, humdrum Tuesday night had taken.

"We thought Marlene had imagined you. She caught a passing blow to the head with a Bombarda-"

"And you will go through a lot _worse_ this night if you don't shut the fuck up and come with me!"

Silence.

Bleak.

Brittle in a tenuous way.

The woman's hand flopped to her side, swinging, as the other lifted to scrub drowsily down her face, pulling at skin.

That's when Alice saw it.

The desperation in the shadows skulking beneath the skin of her eyes. Purple like bruises. Alice pondered, lazily with all the clarity of a wandering cloud, when it was the last time the woman had slept. She looked tired.

Exhausted.

"I'm sorry… I just… _Please_. We must leave now. Bellatrix, Barty and the Lestranges will be here any second. I'm a good fighter, Merlin knows you two are too, but even I know when to cut my loses. That's a fight we won't win…"

Something tenacious jumped in the muscle of her sharp jaw.

"Not _yet,_ anyway."

Now, Alice knew, many would think it would be ridiculous, foolish, beyond stupid, to leave their heavily warded house with a stranger in, perhaps, the crux of a bloody war, with nothing but their word of looming tragedy to back them up.

Alice _felt_ a little stupid.

Yet, she saw the desperation.

There was an honesty in that emotion.

An honesty that could not be feigned.

This stranger, this stranger who looked so much like Alice's friends, was desperate to save them.

Desperate enough to not be sleeping.

And yes. This could _all_ be a ploy. An ambush could be waiting for this woman to lure them out of the safety of their house to attack.

Yet… Alice also knew one small little fact many often forgot.

She had gone to school with Bellatrix Lestrange.

Bellatrix had been top of her class in arithmancy and runes.

They called her the brightest witch of her age, before she had slunk to he-who-must-not-be-named's side like a well-trained dog.

If anyone, anyone at all, could break the near impenetrable Longbottom wards, it would be her.

It's why Dumbledore had never given the couple a safe house to retreat to. The Longbottom wards had not fallen in nearly six hundred years. It would be a waste of resources…

And who did this stranger say was minutes away from arriving?

_Bellatrix._

Decisively, of the same mind as Alice, as he often was, Frank strode forward.

"Should we go, then? I think I speak for myself and my wife when I say we very much like our minds as they are."

The woman beamed, hurried forward, and took up their hands again. Soon, they were racing through their house, swift on silent feet, through the dark of that dull, dreary Tuesday night.

Alice knew she had made the right choice when the woman bypassed the front and back doors out the house, instead ushering the couple to the floo network hooked up to the hearth in their kitchen.

This definitely was no ambush.

Grabbing the floo in the jam jar above the domed mantle, the woman tossed it at Frank's chest, who barely managed to grapple for it in time before dropping it to shatter on the floor.

With the floo safely in their hands, the woman, confidently, shoved them into the fireplace…

And took a step back.

Alice frowned.

"Aren't you coming? If Bellatrix is here, you _don't_ want to be. You said so yourself. Come with us and-"

"I can't. Not yet. You're going to Godric's Hollow, and, if I've timed all this right, my future self should be there right now after fighting To-… Godric's Hollow is where I'll go, in a few more ticks of a clock. Don't worry. If all has gone well, the fidelius charm will be down at the house. If not and I've… I've failed and… The floo network will link you to the nearest place it can. Far away from here. Safe… What are you waiting for! Go."

Frank unscrewed the jam jar, but Alice wavered.

As a Gryffindor, you _never_ left anyone behind.

Particularly someone who, by all indication, had just saved your life.

"Where are you going?"

The woman smiled, brimming with heat and cheer and sunshine on a spring morning.

She smiled with all the force of _life._

Of hope.

Of better times to come other than this dreadful war.

" _You_ just told me where I go. If the Prewett twins say I save them, then I better save them, shouldn't I?"

Realisation came like a punch from a troll.

_Time travel._

She, this woman, had not saved the twins thus far, from her perspective. From Alice's, this was months old.

They were running in opposite ways.

How this woman knew they were going to be attacked… Her lack of sleep… She must have came here, this night, straight from the McKinnon manor.

She still had a shard of glass in her hair from the blown in window.

James and Lily had just given birth to a child around the time the Longbottom's had welcomed their's a few months ago.

_A daughter._

A daughter who Alice had never met. The couple had been put into hiding before the birth, but she knew the child's name.

_Hemlock Potter._

Alice spluttered.

"You're insane, absolutely insane, completely insane, utterly-…"

She winked at them.

"All the best people are, love."

The echo of the front door exploding disturbed the night. The woman, Hemlock, Alice reminded herself, hurriedly glanced behind her. When she whirled back around, there was no more grins or winks to be found, only stony resolve.

"Go now!"

Alice watched her husband catch a fistful of powder, just as Hemlock hauled free a… A watch.

"Longbottoms! I know you're in here! Come out and play with me!"

"Godric's Hollow!"

Just before the green flames of the floo engulfed her completely, Alice witnessed Hemlock, as Marlene had described, blow away in a mist of gold smoke.

And then she was flying.

When she and Frank landed, covered in soot, coughing and wheezing, it was into the living room of Godric's Hollow they stumbled into.

And it was to the sight of Voldemort, in all his terrible, terrible glory, laying…

Laying dead on the floor.

_Dead._

He looked utterly human then.

Human and frail and _dead_.

Wide-eyed, flustered, Alice glanced up.

Lily and James stood with a baby Hemlock by the bay windows, gently humming nursery rhymes to the disgruntled babe.

Not a hair out of place or a scratch to be seen.

Sirius and Remus were perched on the couch.

Moody and Hagrid came lumbering in through the door, the latter shaking the rain off his umbrella, grinning from ear to ear.

The Prewett Twins were… Yes, restraining a flushed faced, sobbing Pettigrew.

Dorcas Meadowes was amassing a heap of rubbish on the oak table, a burnt leather diary, a dented golden cup, a smashed locket, a crushed ring, a snapped crown, and… Merlin, was that a decapitated Snake's head?

Albus rose from his seat in an armchair by the fireplace, eyes merrily twinkling in a way that Alice had not seen for many months.

His face was gentle and kind.

And full of mischief.

"Ah, I believe you've finally met Hemlock?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to skip Thursdays update as it was a completely chaotic day. I was at uni from eight in the morning till half nine at night and, with all the elegance of a sleep deprived student, passed out on my sofa as soon as I got home lmao. I hope this chapter more than makes up for the missed day!


	5. The Slippery Slope To Stupidity  Part III

_Hemlock Potter's P.O.V_

Hemlock had thought Molly was going to hit her. Maybe seize a frail arm, haul her out of the Burrow, throw her to the curb, and tell her never to darken their doorstep again.

That's what Uncle Vernon would have done.

Aunt Petunia would have merely locked her in the cupboard, not wanting to waste her breath on the freak.

Hemlock wouldn't have blamed the Weasley matriarch if she did. This mess was all her fault. Ron and the Twins, in all their brash bravery and loving loyalty, had stolen Mr. Weasley's flying Ford Anglia, drove it all the way to little Whinging in the dead of the night, and broke Hemlock out from under the bars of the Dursleys home, fleeing with a newly unshackled Hemlock back to the Burrow.

Mrs. Weasley had been laying in wait for them.

Immediately, she was upon them.

She scolded Ron, Fred and George until the generally loud-mouthed Weasley's were timidly shuffling in their stances. And then Molly's gaze had veered towards Hemlock with those bright brown eyes, and she thought, truly thought, here it was. What always came.

Yelling.

Bruises.

Anger.

Hemlock lingered like a deer caught in the headlights. Held her breath tight in her chest till her ribs ached. Stiff backed and wide-eyed and, Merlin, here it was and she was going to-

"Hemlock, how wonderful to see you, dear! Of course, I don't blame any of this on you. Come on, time for a spot of breakfast. Here we are now, tuck in. Tuck in! You are far too thin for a growing girl. Eat up."

No slap up the face. No hollering. No insults and curses. A lovely smile, a gentle shepherding to a crooked table, and a plate full of sizzling sausages and buttered toast.

When she was older, but not necessarily wiser if she was willing to risk all she had, Hemlock would understand Molly saw her for what she was.

An abused kid in need of a gentle hand.

Ron, Fred, all the Weasley children could handle the yelling she gave. In truth, it was sometimes the only way to get through to her children. Hemlock, however?

She would have fallen to pieces.

Molly knew that.

Molly knew most things about her.

She didn't judge.

She didn't shout.

She gave her breakfast.

It was the best breakfast Hemlock ever had, even with the burnt toast.

The day of Fred Weasley's rainy funeral, as if even the sky wept his passing, the way she saw Molly standing there, at a cold and silent graveside, sobs quaking her shoulders, was the day Hemlock remembered that breakfast from so long ago. The breakfast that taught her families didn't always equate to pain. 

Fred would never get to have another of those.

Every breakfast at the Burrow after this would always be one seat lesser.

One laugh away.

One joke gone.

And Molly Weasley would always feel that loss most.

She would always serve one extra plate.

Pour one more tea.

Cook just a tad too much.

Hemlock's fingers folded around the pocket watch in her jacket.

Clutched at it in pulses as if she could beat life into it like she wanted to beat life back into Fred.

The cool gold warmed in her palm.

At the wake, Molly served them dinner. Sausages and buttered toast. Fred's favourite. She smiled at Hemlock through her glassy eyes.

_"Hemlock, how wonderful to see you, dear! Of course, I don't blame any of this on you. Come on, time for a spot of breakfast. Here we are now, tuck in. Tuck in! You are far too thin for a growing girl. Eat up."_

Molly Weasley didn't blame Hemlock for Fred's death.

Perhaps she should, Hemlock thought.

They should all blame her.

So much pain.

So much grief.

All because she was the girl-who-lived-to-see-those-she-loved-hurt.

Hemlock devoured the whole plate and smiled back. That was the day she decided she was going to change the world, and she did it with a single thought swimming about her mind.

_One more breakfast._

For Fred.

For Molly.

For _everyone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: The Prewett twins enter stage right!
> 
> A.N: I've been a little busy lately, and the worlds gone a little insane, and this fic had to take a bit of a back burner while I fixed some strings and jotted out the plot, but I'm back baby! And daily updates are going again! I hope that makes you all as glad as it makes me, because this fic does hold a little place in my heart, and I do put a lot of effort into this. Here we go, chapter five, and I will hopefully see you tomorrow! Have a good night, and stay safe.


	6. The First Of Five Part III

_Fabian Prewett's P.O.V_

There was a melody to the feet slapping on the cobblestone street. A tangled bass born of mutual spirit. There was a tempo to it all, Fabian thought. An upbeat salsa that saw passers-by veering and gliding about each other, never to touch.

Not that you would _want_ to touch a single thing that had come skulking out these black streets.

If you didn't want to lose a hand, or get your head irreparably shrunk, or some such nasty hex.

Knockturn Alley was an unfinished painting. So much of the canvas shrouded in fog, misty white, caught in a limbo awaiting an artist to finish what somebody else had started. The morning light struggled to delve deeper than the rooftops here, couldn't penetrate the murky shadows of crooked buildings.

The air was cold, of course. As cold as the shopkeepers gazes and as stiff as the strings on the haggler's purses. Fabian slunk through the crowd, keeping as close to the shadows as possible. It wasn't a hard task. The buildings were piled together, looming, like a twisted and warped jungle of stone. The alley was a bitter labyrinth, turning back on itself randomly, shifting right, then left, then right again.

A place easy to get lost in.

Both figuratively and metaphorically.

Dark magic called for lost souls.

"Are you sure he said to meet him here?"

Fabian cut a quick glance to Gideon loitering at his side, hands stuffed in his pockets, wary eyes darting to anything that came too close to the pair.

Ever the Ravenclaw, his brother.

Always so suspicious.

If, currently, they weren't marauding through a place like Knockturn Alley, where many dark witches and wizards hunted, Fabian might have rolled his eyes at his brother's paranoid nature.

Yet, they were _here_ , and the letter that had bought the twins to these dim thoroughfares merited at least a little scepticism.

Even from the quintessential Gryffindor Fabian was.

"That's what the letter said. 10:00 AM: Borgin and Burkes."

Said shop was opposite them, lit by a sole lamp dangling from the side of the door. From the alley they had crept into, the two brothers' watched the building, daring not a step closer. Gideon scoffed at him, breath puffing in the wintry breeze.

"And you really think it was from Reg? Come on, Fab. I know you liked the kid in school, and I know you have respect for his brother, but it does all seem a little odd, now, don't it? That he would write to you, you of all people, after all this time? Why not Sirius?"

Fabian shook his head.

"Maybe the kid didn't want to get into it with his brother. You know what Sirius is like. He'd pull the 'told you so' card, and that's the last thing the kid needs right now. You know what that's like, after all the arguments we've had. Look…"

Voice dropping low, Fabian shuffled closer to Gideon.

"Even if it's just a slim chance, just a faint possibility that this letter is real, that Reg wants out of what he's dug himself into, just a young kid misguided… We _need_ to give him that chance. Everybody deserves one last chance to make things right, and this could be Regulus's. If we don't fish him out of He-who-must-not-be-named's hold, who will? He's fifteen, Gid. _Fifteen._ Think of all the fucked-up shit we pulled at that age. Think of Sirius too. Think about what this could mean for him. Is it a trap? Quite likely. Am I still going to walk through that door on the off chance some poor, sinking kid is waiting to be saved? You bet 'cha."

For a long while, Gideon stared at him. Stared and stared and-

Huffed.

"One day, brother, your bleeding heart is going to get us _both_ killed."

Nonetheless, Gideon offered up no further fight. Something chimed in Fabian's pocket. Delving a hand into the fold of his wizarding robe near his breast, he pulled free his watch, clicking the lip open.

10:00 am.

Show time, as the muggles said.

Nodding, Gideon pulled tight to his side, wand hidden in the bank of his coat. _Ready._

The twins began to steal across the street. Step by step and-

Something darted to his left, shouldered his rib, and weaved itself between them before he could fully blink.

An arm looped through Gideon's crooked elbow, another through Fabian's own. With a sharp haul, they were wheeled to the right, down the way, wrenching and heaving them from the door they had been moments away from entering.

"I really wouldn't walk through that door. Five Death Eaters' are waiting for you in the back street. The owner, Burke, spelled the bell to alert them of your arrival. They would have jumped you two steps in."

Fabian glanced to his side, down and down and down and-

A girl-

A woman stood between them, linked, a tiny thing of wind tousled coil and feral eye. It was, Fabian thought, tricky to pick out features when her hues were so exquisitely bright. A stream of burnt sienna that flushed a joyful pink at the cheeks, lips and nose, capped with a crown of fluttering onyx mane.

She walked as if she owned the place, head held high, shoulders back, a certain swagger to her stride that, in the pale, dull light, resembled confidence earned and not bravado played.

Slim like a seeker.

As fast as one too, by the, despite her short stature, swiftness of her feet as she carried them away in a rush of brilliant colour like a comet burning across the sky.

Fabian did something he hadn't done since he was twelve.

Stutter.

"W-W-Who are you? What are you-"

The thud of her boots added to the rhythm of the street, no longer bass, but something high and unignorable.

Everything about her was something that hooked you.

Trapped.

Caught.

She scanned the crowd around them, dashed a glance backward, quick and keen, and when she turned back around, she met Fabian's gaze.

Green.

So green.

A green Fabian had never thought was conceivable.

_Impossible._

She smiled at him.

Toothy.

Razor-sharp.

Too large for her slender face.

Bright, like the stars themselves.

Everything about her was light, fractions of it glinting all at once, a prism shining in the sun and-

"Laugh as if I told you the funniest joke you've ever heard."

Fabian blinked.

"Wha-… Ow! _Ow_! Stop that, you cretin! What-"

She pinched his arm again with nimble fingers, twisting viciously.

" _Laugh_. Now."

Gideon threw his head back and laughed, full bellied, sunny, husky, like campfire smoke. Still, the trio roved down the road.

"Good. They're following, but they shouldn't suspect we _know_ they are. It could help us if they decide to act. Give us the advantage of surprise. If we play our cards right, we might make it out of here today with our hearts still pounding. Now, pretend we're just old friends meeting up. Nothing more and nothing less. Keep your head down and lets move. I still don't like the odds. The faster we lose them in the crowd, the better."

They stumbled on, this time staying close to the crowd in the streets, away from the shades and towering walls, buried in a throng of sifting bodies.

"Who are you?"

The girls mouth opened, but it was Gideon's voice that came tumbling out in a whisper, answering his own question.

"You're _her_. The girl who saved Marlene. The Impossible Potter."

The grin was back, punctuated by dimples.

By Salazar, _that_ wasn't fair, was it?

Dimples and curls?

Where had Merlin found the magic to make this girl?

In Fabian's wet dreams?

"The one and only. Hemlock Potter, at your service. Please, no autographs. Candy cane?"

Slipping an arm free, she dipped it into her leather jacket's breast pocket, a leather jacket he was sure, though this one was older, he had seen Sirius sporting last week, and sure enough, produced a wonky little candy cane, just like the ones Fabian's mother was teaching Molly to make, holding it out for Gideon. Shocked, perhaps as dazed as Fabian himself was feeling, he shook his head. She shrugged, yanked the wrapper off, and popped the hook into her mouth until only a striped tail peeped out between plush lips.

"Your loss."

Fabian, finally, got a hold of his tongue again.

"We were going to die, weren't we? That's why you're here. That's how you knew how many Death Eaters were waiting for us. That's how you knew there were Death Eaters waiting for us to begin with."

The bubble popped.

Guilt washed over him in a surge.

They would have died.

_Died._

Gideon, who had said this was a ploy from the beginning, would have _died._

Fabian nearly got his brother killed.

All for what?

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

The arm threaded through his own again. Hand soft. A stroke. Feathery. He met her eye. She was still smiling, but it was small. Barely there. A ghost. Sad. So very fucking sad.

"It wasn't a trap… Not really. Regulus Black _did_ send you that letter. A Death Eater intercepted it though, and saw an opening. They altered the time and location. The real letter indicated you should meet Reg at five o'clock at the Shrieking Shack. You weren't wrong to come. You're _never_ wrong to try and help somebody. Everybody deserves one more breakfast with their loved ones. However, we're not out of the woods yet. I think-"

Something to the left caught her attention.

The smile shattered on her face.

Her pace picked up.

Thud, thud, thud, thudding.

Just like Fabian's heart hammering in his chest.

"Shit. Dolohov. Two O'clock. Dressed in blue…. Fuckin' hell."

A scowl hooded her gaze.

Strangely, Fabian wanted it _gone_.

He didn't like it.

Didn't like the dusk it brought to someone so bright and light.

"New plan. We can't play this off. Dolohov won't care we're in a crowd. In fact, he'll like the added carnage. He'll start firing spells as soon as he gets a clear line of sight. Just keep walking. Crisscross a little. Don't walk straight. Make him work for his chance. Fast. We can lose them in the-"

She broke off in a sharp inhale, feet stumbling.

"Eleven O'clock. Look, but don't make it obvious."

Fabian peeked over.

A flicker of amber eye twisting through the crush of people behind them. He turned back around. Jaw tight, muscle's jumping.

As if this could get any worse.

"Fenrir Greyback."

When she spoke, it was through clenched teeth, part impressed, semi scornful.

"What in the name of Morgana did you two _do_ to piss of the top Death Eaters? Dolohov and Greyback, and… Yep. If I'm not mistaken, the big guy bringing up the rear is Mulciber. Tsk. You've really gone and pissed in someone's Wheaties."

Gideon echoed back.

"I think I saw Lucius and Rowle to the right. Idiot hasn't covered his blonde hair."

Fabian's fingers tightened on his wand.

"We ran into them on a mission in Gringotts. Gideon sliced off Fenrir's toe. I… May have broken a _few_ of Dolohov's bones. They escaped before the Aurors arrived to arrest them. And Malfoy? The blond bastard detests anything with Prewett or Weasley blood. Ever since Molly turned down his betrothal offer a few years back to marry Arthur. Had his knickers in a twist over us ever since. Especially after he found out Narcissa proposed a marriage contract for Gideon to our mother before his."

That halted her as she came to a sputtering stop.

"Lucius Malfoy wanted to marry Molly? Molly, Molly? That-… That actually explains a lot. He always did hate Arthur and-"

Fiercely, she shook her head.

"Later. Right now, we need to make sure we _have_ a later. We can't play it off. Losing them won't work now. Greyback will sniff us out… Right. One thing for it. How fast is your wand work?"

For the first time that morning, Fabian grinned.

"Fast enough, sweets."

Unceremoniously, she dragged the pair into a side street between two buildings, where, between the garbage and old broken bits of furniture and potion vials, she hauled them down. Crouching.

"You'll have to do better than fast."

She murmured, the three clustered so close Fabian could feel the breeze of her breath on his cheek, as she magic'd her wand free from its forearm holster. A long stick of ashen wood, knobbled and bent.

Dumbledore's wand.

_You'll have to do better than fast._

Well… He knew what would be _better._

Fuck it.

If he was going to die, he was going to do it with the taste of beauty on his tongue.

He turned and dipped.

He caught her unaware, forehead brushing forehead.

The kiss was gentle and soft, soothing in ways that words would never be. His hand rested below her ear, his thumb caressing her cheek where he knew a dimple hid, as their breaths mingled, and he could feel the candy cane prodding his lower lip awkwardly.

She tasted of peppermint and madness and all things bright.

It was the best kiss he ever had.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake Fabian! We're seconds away from being lynched and you decide to get your jollies off. I aught to kill you myself, and save these bastards the trouble for all the shit you drag me into and-"

Fabian pulled back, grinning.

He winked at Gideon.

The sullen twin flushed.

So he was right, then.

There _was_ a note of jealousy to Gideon's derisive tone.

That just made everything sweeter.

"Couldn't help myself. One last kiss for the damned."

Potter laughed, soft and clear like clicking crystal. It was a noise that was free and sheer, unsullied, and came with a tickle and a bounce. The sort of laugh only a flinty heart could close itself off to.

"Oh, I _like_ you."

Gideon grumbled something or other about Gryffindor's and their ridiculous antics, and how, if he survived this, Fabian owed him a drink, though Fabian was sure Gid was only sore he hadn't thought of the kiss first, when, abruptly, Potter's hand shot out, straight over his mumbling mouth.

Fabian frowned.

"What-"

A hand slipped over his own mouth, still clutching at her wand. The voice's came drifting up moments later.

"Where are they?"

"They went down here. I can _smell_ them. I get the little one. She smells… Delicious."

"I don't understand how you can smell _anything_. It is positively vile down here. I would never-"

"No one asked what you would never do, Malfoy. Now shut the fuck up. They're down here somewhere."

Potter lowered her hands, bracing her feet to spring, careful not to lift a foot and step on the broken glass around them, and prematurely alert the group edging closer to their position.

Gideon freed his own wand from his robes as Fabian did the same.

They glanced to each other.

Potter held up her fingers in a set of three.

They nodded.

One.

Two.

_Three._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have forgotten to update on Friday, although I did have the chapter ready to go lol. However, I'll be posting twice today to catch up! So enjoy, and stay safe. 
> 
> And as a side note, because I've been asked, When I say daily updates, I mean from Monday to Friday. I work on my other fics during the weekend, and won't be posting on For The Love Of Molly Weasley on Saturdays and Sundays. I hope that clears up any confusion.


	7. The Slippery Slope To Stupidity  Part IV

_Hemlock Potter's P.O.V_

She'd lost them in the confusion. Through the wind and sleet and cackling Death Eaters, she'd lost them in the flashing lights of hexes flung. Hermione. Ron. Alastor. Fred. George. Remus. Tonks. Shacklebolt. Gone.

Seven Potters had taken flight that night, behind the protective backs of Order members, over the small town of sleepy Little Whinging, and Hemlock, the real Potter, was, so far, the only one to make it out of the ambush waiting for them in the cloud cover.

The only one to make it out to a fretting Molly Weasley wringing her hands in the sheath of her apron, pacing the crooked floorboards of the safe house.

"The Death Eaters were waiting for us."

Hemlock said in a way of breathless greeting, drenched from the rain pouring outside.

"We were surrounded the moment we took off. They knew it was tonight. I don't know what happened to anyone else. Four of them chased us, it was all we could do to get away, and then Voldemort caught up with us and-"

She could hear the self-justifying note drifting in her pallid voice. The plea for Molly to understand why she did not know what happened to her sons.

Why it wasn't Ron standing before her right now, as it should have been.

Or George.

Or Fred.

Any body but _her._

Because, again, this was her fault.

All Hemlock's fault.

No matter what she did, where she went, what she said, a Weasley was always put in danger.

Molly's children were always put in danger.

What if only two walked through that door behind Hemlock?

One?

_None?_

How would she ever meet Molly's eye again, knowing it was her who put one or all in the grave too soon?

Merlin, her chest felt tight. Tight and wheezy and-

Molly Weasley spotted her in the doorway, sodden and shaking, and she _smiled_. Beamed. Bright tooth and crinkled and with her eyes a little wet, and in three short strides, Molly was before her.

There was two different types of hugs, Hemlock found. One was full of gentle arms, barely there, that leaves space to breathe. More perfunctory than emotional. A certain pat, pat, there, there, don't worry because then _I_ will have to deal with it, so I give you this creature comfort, contact, in hopes you don't drag me into your mess.

Hemlock had one or two of those before, as rare as they were.

A pacifier for the screaming baby.

Then there was a hug like Molly Weasley's hugs.

It was strong, arms enclosing around her, breast to breast, heartbeat to heartbeat. An embrace that was more than body, but mind and soul too. _I'm here, through it all, I'm here with you._ It was the most powerful thing Hemlock had ever been given. As if holding her wasn't quite enough, feeling her there wasn't enough, Molly had to _know_ Hemlock was alive, breathing.

And she felt it then.

Alive.

Awake.

_Safe._

The safest she had ever felt.

As if Voldemort himself could pop up behind the worn living room couch, bold head gleaming, red eye glinting, and Molly, Molly Weasley in her paisley dress, would beat him away from Hemlock with her spatula. Swat him like a fly with her wooden spoon poking out her pocket.

Hemlock had never, in her short life, felt safer.

_Love._

Hemlock Potter felt loved.

And it was that love, a mother's love, that made everything else possible.

It was that hug, short as it was, that showed Hemlock that love was _always_ the answer.

"Thank goodness you're all right."

Molly whispered into her soaked curls, giving one last long squeeze before pulling away, idly brushing the drooping locks clinging to Hemlock's soggy forehead.

Hagrid coughed into a tight fist.

"Haven't go' any brandy, have yeh, Molly?"

Quickly, at the sharp look Molly shot him, Hagrid tacked on a shaky reasoning.

"Fer medicinal purposes, o' course."

Fred came in moments later, wet, but no worse for wear. Ron followed suit with Hermione. George came back too, though he was one ear lesser.

They all came home, every single one of them.

There had been laughter.

Jokes.

_Love._

There had been love, that night, thick in the air. Hemlock watched it bloom in the small space between Ron and Hermione, shot like arrows in their shy glances. In Molly's smile, dipping in her dimples. Speckled between Fred's freckles. Woven amongst the sheets of George's bandages.

In the Great Hall of Hogwarts, sitting amongst the dead, so many dead, of the Final Battle, Hemlock Potter swore an oath in the crushing silence.

There would be love again.


End file.
